Waking the Fallen
by Windy City Dreamer
Summary: After his run in with Foyet, Morgan isn't quite himself. Emily tries to help.


**A/N: Much thanks to _tfm _and she-who-shall-remain-nameless for their betaing and sounding board work. All mistakes are, of course, my own. Feel free to point them out and I may even fix them. Enjoy.**

_Being out of control is one of the worst feelings in the world, sometimes even worse than pain. It is its own kind of pain. ~Danzae Pace_

The thump of fists impacting leather echoed in the empty room, the hundred pound bag easily taking the punishment being doled out to it, swinging and bouncing on the chain that held it suspended from the ceiling.

Sweat formed on his forehead, beads of it running over his face and skin, soaking through dark grey cotton, stinging the cuts that pitted his arm. The tingle of salt literally making its way into his wounds pushed him further, making him move faster, punch harder, his fists a blur of motion.

One, two, right, left, right, jab, cross, jab…

"You're dropping your left."

The comment went unacknowledged, Morgan not even pausing, delivering a hard, fast one-two combo to his leather adversary followed just as quickly by a series of solid jabs, the echo blending into one continuous thud of sound.

Emily perched at the edge of the training ring tucked into a corner a few yards away from the punching bag, watching as he landed punch after punch. She could hear the soft puff of his breathing, the clang of metal on metal as the bag twisted and swayed. He had been down here a while, that much was obvious just looking at him but he didn't seem to be slowing up any time soon. It was no mystery just whose face Morgan was picturing right now.

It was close to ten minutes later when he finally stopped, a right hook sending the bag swinging wildly before he reached out, stilling it with wrapped hands, looking as though he wasn't entirely sure whether he was ready to call it a night. She remained quiet, waiting him out, knowing he would say something when and if he felt he needed to.

Another two minutes and he huffed a laugh, starting to remove the tape that protected his hands from the unyielding leather bag. He kept his gaze down, focused on the task of removing layer after layer of wrapping, his speech only slightly lower, more labored, than normal, his tone nonchalant, conversational.

"I didn't know I was being scored."

He glanced up to her then, right hand free now, moving on to the left. "Or that you know your way around a ring."

She shrugged, ghosted a teasing smile. "There's a lot you don't know about me, Morgan."

His answering smirk seemed genuine as he shook his head, crossing the short distance and easing down next to her on the lip of the ring. She leaned back against the ropes, the fact that no prizefighter ever wanted to find themselves in that position not lost on her. Morgan's back had been against the ropes too, the prize at stake far greater than some belt or trophy.

Her gaze was trained on the bag, motionless now, no signs that less than fifteen minutes ago it had stood in for a sadistic sociopath. A real sick fuck whose Houdini routine had only heaped insult on injury. She wondered if Morgan's back was still being pushed against those figurative cords.

"I know it's about control," she said evenly, the statement coming after another bout of silence. "Get inside their heads and psych them out. Get them before they get you."

She looked over to see him nod again, his gaze seemingly focused on the same thing hers had been. He dropped the gauze and tape in a mound between them, shrugged. "Something like that," he agreed.

Pausing she thought over what she was going to say next. Should she walk the line or cross it? Two years was more than enough time to learn about a person, especially when observation is a very active part of your job description. And Morgan, she had fast come to understand, was not the pussyfooting type.

"You can't let him do that with you. Hotch was right. If you let what happened mess with your head, he's got you."

His jaw skewed slightly, the muscle tightening just barely but it was enough to tell her that she had struck a nerve there, that one thing belying the relaxed way he held himself. He didn't like where she was going, and she had been fairly certain that he wouldn't but there was definitely no going back now.

"In Colorado…with Cyrus—"

He laughed, a mirthless, dismissive sound, pushing off the padding and turning to face her. "Look, Prentiss, I know what you're getting at and the last thing I'm looking to hear right now is how this is the same damn thing as what happened then, okay? It's not." His voiced jumped a notch or two on those last few words, a finger jabbing the air in emphasis. "You had a choice. You had the chance to fight back…"

He trails off leaving his thought unfinished but she does not need him to tell her what he's thinking. It all came back to control. She had, ultimately, been in control with Cyrus. The decision had been hers to make and she had made it knowing full and well the consequences of that choice. Morgan had not had that luxury. Foyet had taken control of things long before they had raided his homes.

She thought back to what Derek had said to her earlier, as an EMT pulled the glass shards from his arm._"Right or wrong, he had me."_

And he still did.

"Okay." He looked surprised, as though he hadn't expected her to drop the subject so easily, and she couldn't help a small smile at having caught him off guard. She rose too, taking a few steps away from him, stopping when she was almost at the wall. She turned to face him and shrugged. "So what are you going to do about it, Derek? Because right now, from where I'm standing, he still has a damn good grip."

She watched his expression change from incredulity to resentment and even anger. She kept her expression free of everything but expectation of his answer, she kept it that way even as his own grew darker, gaze hardening as he stalked towards her.

"What the hell is that supposed to mean?" he asked, his voice a low, dangerous rumble, like the clap of thunder warning of an impending storm. The distance between them was gone now, the two standing toe to toe.

Emily seemed unfazed.

"You let him get to you. You're _still_ letting him get to you. That's why you're in here in the middle of the night, hammering away at punching bag. He still has you, Derek. Right now, you're letting him win."

That muscle in his jaw worked some more, she could almost hear his teeth grinding against one another, if only in her head. She was pushing him and she knew it, had a pretty good idea of where it would all lead if she kept pushing. At some point something had to give and Derek Morgan was not the tears of frustration type.

It seemed a long tense moment of silence, and if she hadn't known him as well as she did, she would have at the very least been wary. But she did know him and so she waited, her features calm where his were turbulent. His anger, though currently directed her way did not lay with her, but with himself. He was not the type of man to take a change from predator to prey so lightly and her question, the implications hung between them now, a tangible third party in the room.

_What are you going to do, Derek?_

Hair brushed the wall as her chin tilted up, her gaze staying even with his the whole time, a challenge in her eyes even as her shoulders brushed the cool, painted cinderblock of the wall.

_What are you going to do?_

It always comes back to control.

_"You cannot control what happens to you, but you can control your attitude toward what happens to you, and in that, you will be mastering change rather than allowing it to master you." _Brian Tracy

**So, let me know what you think. All reviews are given their own little cubbies where they can grow and thrive for all eternity...**


End file.
